Revenge
by za
Summary: "What would Brian say?" Uh-oh...someone's been caught! please (please!) read and review?


Title: Revenge

Author: mao 

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most namely not me. I'm just a poor teenager not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles. 

Author's Notes: So...I'm more than a little obsessed with the bizarre intricacies of Mandy's and Curt's relationship and where it might go. I always thought there could be more to it than meets the eye. 

Warnings: Sex, language.

***

We shouldn't be here. Not like this. But - uhhh...who would argue with fucking Curt Wild, Sex/Rock God in the closet backstage. Not me. Not anyone with half a brain. 

He's supposed to be onstage in just a moment, but we've almost finished. He plunges deeply into me, up to the hilt, grabbing my hips as he pumps me hard. My entire body is on fire. I feel just like I did the first time I ever had sex with a man, a nervous virgin in the backseat of his father's car. He murmers something soft in my ear, something that could be anything, I don't care, so long as it's his rough American voice saying it to me. 

And then my mind is gone, floating away on silver clouds, and his entire body is shuddering. We freeze together for a moment, his hands on my hips, still inside me, and I feel as if the explosions in my head will never stop.

And then, it's time for him to go. 

I roll over, and he helps me up. I help him do up his pants and we straighten ourselves before he opens the door and peeks out, up and down the hall. I follow, shut the door behind me, and watch him go. In those tight leather pants, the firm cheeks of his ass have never looked better - except, perhaps, naked. 

"Having fun?'

Dear God!

I jump, keeping myself from letting out a squeal of horror at being caught. Shannon stands there, a naughty smirk on her face, arms folded. I can feel my face flush, but I force my expression calm, fold my arms, and look her in the eye. 

"Yes?"

"What would Brian say?"

Fucking cunt. Even now she won't let it go.

Fuck what Brian would say. This all happened because of his thing for young, innocent groupies anyway. Because of his passion for sticking things up his nose. Who needs a child with Brian around, right? One puts peas up their nose; the other, cocaine. Same thing to me.

Besides, we've been over for so long anyway. He doesn't have a right to bitch at this point. Not about his ex-wife and his ex-lover covertly fucking, anyway. Granted, he likes to think he owns both of us still. He would certainly like to think that the both of us would never have sex again. 

He'd really hate it if he knew we were fucking each other. 

It had happened suddenly one evening, after he'd performed. Just your average night, really, though he'd been smashing as usual on stage. Why was I there? I guess because it was shortly after the breakup and the divorce and we were both looking for a little confort, for some friendship and simple affection. Friendship.

After the show, we'd gone out for a drink. Gone was the time when we both had to get smashed every night after a performance, or even every night out of boredom. Now it was an excuse to get together and hang out. 

We talked about old times, about when Brian used to fuck me, then perform and go back to Curt's room. We made joke after sad, sick joke about our relationships with him, about his relationship with the blow. We talked about being Americans in a British invasion. 

And then he apologized. 

He took my hand, his skin roughly calloused but warm. And he held my fingers still, and with the force of his will, made me meet his eyes. I'd been unconsciously avoiding looking him in the eye since we'd gotten to the bar. 

It was your typical New York dive, with grime on the floor and a whore passed out in the bathroom. The jukebox was blaring ZZ Top and there was porn showing on the televisions by the bar. But even over all that din, I could hear the soft intonations of his voice as he spoke to me.

"I'm sorry, Mandy. I never - I didn't know this would happen. It never occurred to me that it might hurt you. Or that I would one day be here too. I only knew what he let me know, and what I saw was amazingly beautiful. I'm just so fucking sorry."

A draft came from behind him as someone entered the bar, and the air sent over to me his soft scent of clean sweat, beer, and the deeper scent of a man - the scent cinnamon and wood, of grease and pines. I was suddenly very aware of his fingers gently carressing the palm of my hand, and of his eyes boring into mine. I could feel the vodka chugging through my veins and it compounded with my loneliness, and then he said the best thing of all.

"If I'd known you, I never would have done it. I never would have wanted to hurt you like that."

And it was all over.

We paid the bill and left the bar, his arm around my waist in what had earlier been a friendly gesture, but now sent shivers down my spine. We touched gently, as if afraid that if we didn't, the other would vanish. As if all this were ephemeral, when really...it had always been there. We'd just never had the opportunity. 

He hailed a cab and I climbed in, pulling him on top of me in the backseat. He said something to the driver - I don't know what - and the radio came on. The next thing I knew, his mouth was on mine, his soft lips meeting mine, parting, then closed again. A master with his tongue, he parted my lips and kissed me, hard, relinquishing gentleness for passion. 

We were making out in a cab on the dark streets of New York, something I hadn't done since I was sixteen. I'd been with so many other men, so many different men, but when Curt Wild put his hand up under my blouse, I thought I was going to die. 

Fucking Shannon. Fucking goddamn cunt rag. She, like everyone else, has always been in love with Brian. I don't know what she's doing here, or what right she thinks she's been given now that she's moved up to working for Tommy Stone, but the girl needs to back off before I hurt her. She's just a child compared to me, even now, but she's shown her true colors.

She's still smirking.

"Brian, I expect, would prefer if I watched the rust growing on my chastity belt while I waited for him to sign the divorce papers, am I right?" Dammit, my accent's moving again. I need to be American or British, but not both. Right, ok. 

"Perhaps. But aren't you cheating on him?"

"Yes. And with his own ex-lover, too. Aren't I just the bitch?" And I've turned on my heel and I'm down the hall. 

Isn't it lovely how that works out? His ex-lover is now my fuckbuddy. Orgasms and revenge in one lovely little basket. 


End file.
